“When shall we three meet again

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”

“When the hurly-burly’s done,

When the battle’s lost and won.”

“That will be ere the set of sun.”

“Where the place?”

“Upon the heath.”

“There to meet with Macbeth.”

“I come, Graymalkin!”

“Paddock calls: Anon!

Fair is foul, and foul is fair.

Hover through the fog and filthy air.”

“Isn’t this marvelous?” Ann whispers, delighted, and I’m glad for what we’ve done.

When Lily Trimble makes her entrance, the audience sits taller. Miss Trimble is a compelling creature with thick waves of auburn hair that cascade down the back of her purple cloak. Her voice is deep and honeyed. She struts and preens, plots and laments with such a fervor that it is almost impossible to believe she is not truly Lady Macbeth herself. When she walks in her sleep, crying with remorse for her evil deeds, she is riveting, and all the while, Ann sits on the edge of her seat, watching with keen attention. When the play comes to its end, and Lily Trimble takes her bow, Ann applauds more loudly than any other in attendance. I have never seen her quite so moved, so alive.

The lamps are brought to their full, dazzling light.

“Wasn’t it marvelous?” Ann asks, beaming. “Her talent is extraordinary, for I actually believed her to be Lady Macbeth!”

Mrs. Worthington looks bored. “It isn’t a pleasant play, is it? I so much preferred The Importance of Being Earnest. That was jolly.”

“I’m sure the performances could not have been nearly so fine as the one we’ve just seen by Miss Trimble,” Ann opines. “Oh, it was splendid! It was more than splendid. They shall have to invent the word to describe Lily Trimble, for none presently do her justice. I’d give anything to meet her. Anything.”

As we fold into the crowd, Ann looks back longingly toward the stage, where a young man pushes a broom, erasing all traces of the performance that held her so in thrall.

I allow a man and his wife to separate us from Mrs. Worthington. “Ann, do you truly want to meet her?” I whisper.

She nods. “Desperately!”

“Then you shall.”

Felicity pushes in, annoying a matron, who decries her rudeness with an “I say!”

“Gemma,” Fee says, curiosity piqued. “What are you about?”

“We’re taking Ann to meet Lily Trimble.”

Mrs. Worthington cranes her neck over the exiting crowd, looking for us. She reminds me of a lost bird.

“Right, and how shall we rid ourselves of my mother?”

We need only a few moments of freedom. A distraction of sorts. I have to concentrate, but it is so difficult with the crowd bustling about me. Their thoughts invade mine till I can scarcely see.

“Gemma!” Fee whispers. She and Ann link their arms through mine.

I struggle to hold fast to my original intent. I repeat it silently as we near Mrs. Worthington: You see a friend in the crowd. You must go to her. We shall be fine here alone. I repeat it till even I believe it.

“Oh!” Mrs. Worthington suddenly exclaims. “Why, there is my dear friend Madame LaCroix from Paris! How could she come without writing me! Oh, she’s getting away! Excuse me, I won’t be but a moment.”

Like a woman possessed, Mrs. Worthington presses into the crowd in search of her dear friend who is, no doubt, still in Paris as we stand there.

“What did you do?” Felicity asks with glee.

“I gave her a wee suggestion. Now, let’s see about meeting Lily Trimble, shall we?”

Behind the stage, it is another world entirely. A swarm of workers busy themselves with props and machinery. Burly men move long painted canvases to and fro. Several others hoist ropes whilst a man with a porkpie hat and a cigar clenched between his lips barks orders to them. We slip down a narrow corridor in search of Lily Trimble. The actor playing Banquo passes us in his dressing gown without the slightest bit of shame.

“Hello, my dears,” he says, eyeing us up and down.

“We very much enjoyed your performance,” Ann says earnestly.

“My next performance shall be in my dressing room. Perhaps you would like to attend? You are quite lovely.”

“We are looking for Miss Trimble,” Felicity says, narrowing her eyes.

The man’s smile fades to a thin shadow. “To your left. Should you change your mind, I am on the right.”

“The very cheek of some people,” Felicity fumes, pulling us on.